


Tazbanvania

by Feynite, LycheePit



Series: Banana Fics [4]
Category: Castlevania (Cartoon)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Asexual Character, Elves, Multi, Original Character(s), Polyamory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 17:49:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16858573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/pseuds/Feynite, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LycheePit/pseuds/LycheePit
Summary: Entirely self-indulgent retelling of Netflix's Castlevania featuring OC elves.





	1. Chapter 1

Tasallir was born in a castle.

 

Not an ordinary castle. A castle both ancient and beyond its time; built by the oldest living being in all of the world.

 

Ravasan.

 

His father.

 

Corridors filled with knowledge lost and knowledge yet to be gained made up the maze of his formative years. The nursery was a sanctuary. Soft pastels, cradle and then a child’s bed, hand-stitched blankets and a window that always looked out towards a field full of sunflowers. The castle itself moved. A great churning engine would resound throughout the night, and Tasallir would feel the ground quaking, and hear the distant roars. The castle had not moved much in his earliest years; so the sounds sometimes frightened him later, when they began to hop around, visiting new places every week, it seemed.

 

When Tasallir woke to the roaring engines, and the swaying of the decorations strewn from his ceiling; the soft kites he and paper balloons and stars, he would climb out of his covers, and hurry down to the door at the end of the hall. The floor outside the nursery was cold, and Tasallir was not permitted to roam. The nursery was safe; but the rest of the castle was a strange and even frightening place. Even in daytime. He was not permitted to roam.

 

This one room he could go to, though. Because it belonged to his other parent. To Nenae.

 

Tasallir’s father was the most ancient vampire to have ever lived. He was distant and strange, and in many ways, an unknown to him. He did not see him every day. His hands were cold and his countenance was hard to understand. He did not smile; he did not hug. He would only ask Tasallir questions, and it was often impossible to tell whether the answers were right or wrong. Sometimes he would bring gifts. They were always strange, but Tasallir kept them anyway, in a special chest in his room. Little devices and odd treasures, things that fascinated him at times, even if he could never seem to figure them out.

 

Nenae, though, was an elf. Tasallir was an elf, too, although Nenae said his blood was vampire as well. He was half-and-half. A __dhampyr.__

 

On nights when he was frightened, he would go to Nenae’s room. The light was almost always on. Nenae would be in their bed, reading, or at their vanity table. They were soft and warm, with long hair. Darker than Tasallir’s, but coloured red at the tips.

 

“Afraid?” Nenae would ask.

 

Tasallir would nod, and they would scoop him up and let him curl onto the other side of their bed. Sometimes they would hug him close. But Tasallir’s skin was sensitive, and hugging could be too much. When that happened, they would just sing to him instead. Humming out a steady, repeating rhythm, that made his heartbeats feel even, made his breaths start to move in time.

 

When Tasallir was six, Nenae took him out of the castle.

 

It was his first time leaving. He was stunned. The day did not go at all as usual. Nenae took him before breakfast; Tasallir did not get to sit down to eat. He did not understand, as they put him in a lot of clothes and wrapped him in one of their spare cloaks, and then carried him through corridors and passageways. Past whirring machines, and massive doorways; through chambers that echoed and other frightening things, that they told him to shut his eyes against. Whispering reassurances, until he felt __openness__  all around him.

 

The air tasted strange.

 

Nenae ran.

 

It jostled him a lot. They ran for a long time, skidding and slipping, holding Tasallir too tight and nearly even dropping him once. By the time they finally put him down, Nenae’s breaths were impossibly hard, and they were surrounded by strangeness. Plants, but growing everywhere. Ground that was soft, but not carpet. Things looked like they had come out of a painting. Or rather, as if Tasallir had been put inside of one.

 

“Just a minute,” Nenae said. “We need to catch our breaths.”

 

“What’s wrong?” Tasallir asked, because he couldn’t think of what else to ask. He knew something was wrong. Everything was different.

 

“Shh, nothing, sweetheart,” Nenae told him. They kept one hand on his cloak, even though Tasallir had already been held too much. “We’re just… going away for a while.”

 

Tasallir turned, and saw something in the distance.

 

At the time, he didn’t recognize it as the castle. He couldn’t. The castle was something he only understood from the inside; seeing the spires jutting up against the mountainside was as incomprehensible to him as the idea that a single blue and green bead could represent the whole entire earth.

 

He looked around in pure confusion, and growing discomfort. The more he noticed, the more unsettled he felt. There were no walls anywhere. The light was bright, and the ceiling was __high.__  High and blue, with a big lamp in it. Tasallir felt wary of it, even though it didn’t hurt. He moved a little back, but Nenae tugged him near again.

 

“Stay close,” they told him.

 

“It’s too itchy,” he said. Which was what he said whenever he was overwhelmed with touch.

 

“Shh,” Nenae said. “It might have to be itchy for a while. You need to stay close, we’re not safe yet…”

 

“Can we go back now?”

 

“We’re just catching our breaths, Tasallir. Look at me. Help me count my breaths.”

 

This was something Tasallir knew how to do, and so he did. It helped him calm down too, in the end. After a while Nenae stood up. He had to hold their hand, but it was better than being carried for a while. Even if the ground was strange and everything seemed sticky or damp or dirty. He didn’t like it. Nenae said they were ‘outside’, and Tasallir immediately decided that ‘outside’ was strange and dangerous and had too much mud. Things kept getting on his clothes, no matter how he batted them. Before long his shoes were dirty, but Nenae told him not to take them off.

 

They started carrying him again. They even told him to eat while they did, giving him a bun he liked, and telling him to eat even though they weren’t sitting down and didn’t have plates. It was the same for having drinks. Sometimes they stopped and rested. Nenae even snapped at him when he took his boots off; though the apologized as they helped him put them back on again.

 

As the light started to change colours, Nenae started moving faster. They squeezed Tasallir too tight and headed towards another place-like-a-painting; with small buildings and lights, and ground that looked more proper.

 

There were __people,__  too.

 

Tasallir was astonished. He had never met anyone who was not Nenae or Father before. Sometimes ‘visitors’ would come to the castle, but Tasallir was never allowed to see them. He only knew because sometimes Nenae told him about it; and told him that if he ever saw someone who wasn’t her or Father in the nursery, he was to scream and bang on the things and raise alarms and not stop until they came for him.

 

Strangers were dangerous.

 

“Nenae…”

 

“It’s alright,” they said, rubbing lightly at his back. “I’m here. Just stick with me and don’t say anything.”

 

Tasallir did as told. Even when they put him down, despite feeling ‘itchy’, he kept close. Holding their hand as they went to a strange place, with a strange ‘inside’. Nenae got them ‘a room’, which was like the nursery and like their bedroom, but also completely different. They had to cover the windows and keep the lights off, but Tasallir could finally take off his muddy things, and they had a little table to sit down at to eat their supper. It was all still very strange, and he felt exhausted; but it made more sense.

 

Nenae tucked into the unfamiliar bed. They sat on the other side, and gave him space, as they stared at the covered window.

 

Tasallir wondered if they wanted to see outside.

 

“I can open it…” he said.

 

Nenae shook their head, though, and patted the bed beside him.

 

“Just sleep, don’t worry. Everything’s going to be alright.”

 

Tasallir didn’t know if he could sleep in a strange bed. It smelled wrong, and felt wrong. But eventually, Nenae lay down next to him, and started to quietly sing. The sound made his eyes droop, and made something in him settle. Exhaustion won out, at last, and he drifted off to sleep.

 

He woke up again while it was still dark.

 

There was an odd noise in the room. After a few minutes, Tasallir placed the sound as crying. He blinked awake, and sat up. It took a while for him to see anything. One of the window covers was open, though, and there was moonlight in the room. After a few minutes, his eyes adjusted.

 

There were two figured in the room.

 

Nenae was on the floor. Their hair was spilling down over their face; they were crying.

 

Father was in the room, too.

 

He was standing over Nenae. Looking down, in his long coat, with his hands folding neatly in front of himself. He didn’t look at Tasallir as he sat up, but that wasn’t strange. What was more strange was for Nenae to be crying. Tasallir didn’t like that. He looked away, not sure what to do; until another minute passed, and he decided he should go help Nenae feel better. He climbed out of the bed, and when over.

 

Reaching out a hand, he patted the back of their head.

 

Father looked at him.

 

“What’s wrong?” Tasallir asked.

 

It seemed the thing to ask.

 

Nenae’s shoulders shook harder, and they cried too much to answer. After a minute, Father bent down. He was very tall; tall enough to easily pick up Nenae, as he put his arms around them, and scooped them up from the floor.

 

To Tasallir’s shock, Nenae flailed out a fist, and hit Father’s face.

 

Father didn’t flinch, though. Nenae wasn’t strong enough to hurt him. Nenae wasn’t very strong at all, really, even though they carried Tasallir; there were a lot of things they couldn’t lift or open, that even Tasallir himself could. It was because they were an elf, with no vampire. So even though Tasallir was shocked that Nenae was hitting, he didn’t feel too alarmed, as they only smashed and wriggled and didn’t really hurt Father.

 

“Nenae is it too sticky?” he asked.

 

“Let us go!” they sobbed. “Just let us __go!”__

 

Tasallir looked at Father, and felt his lip wobble. Why wasn’t he putting them down? They didn’t want to be held!

“Father, it’s too sticky. You have to let go,” he said.

 

“Silence,” Father said.

  
Tasallir quailed.

 

He was __mad.__

 

It… wasn’t good, when Father was mad. It didn’t happen often. And Tasallir wasn’t sure why he felt so strongly certain that Bad Things would come of it. But when Father was mad, the castle always seemed more frightening. There was a gloom in the air, that made it harder to feel happy. It wasn’t a good thing.

 

Father’s hands tightened their grip.

 

Nenae gasped.

 

He leaned in, and spoke quietly to them.

 

“Taneleth,” he said. “You are upsetting the boy. Where were you even going to go? There is nowhere safe for you out here.”

 

Nenae said it was dangerous, too. Tasallir didn’t know what to make of the way their expression twisted, though. They hit Father one more time, before their face finally crumpled, and they started to cry again. Father loosened his grip a little. He stared at Nenae, until they seemed to get too tired to keep crying.

 

“Sleep,” he said, then.

 

Nenae went limp.

 

Tasallir tried to reach up to move some hair from their face. But it was too far away to reach. Father looked at him again, and he quailed.

 

“Get dressed,” Father instructed. “And follow.”

 

“My clothes are dirty…” Tasallir said.

 

“Put them on anyway.”

 

“But…”

“Do as you are told. Now.”

 

Father’s tone brooked no argument. Tasallir hurried to obey, feeling wretched as he pulled on dirty boots and all the layers Nenae had helped him take off for the night. He felt tired, too, but the moonlight helped. Father carried Nenae out of the room. Everything was quiet, and Tasallir saw no strangers. A lot of mist poured off of Father as he carried Nenae along, and didn’t slow down, so that Tasallir had to jog to keep up with them. He dared not lose sight of them, no matted what.

 

They made it all the way back to the castle like that.

 

Father put Nenae in their room. Despite everything, Tasallir was relieved to be back in the nursery. He changed out of his dirty clothes, and washed, and put on his silver star pyjamas. The castle began to rumble. Tasallir snuck down the hall and into Nenae’s room, and found them sleeping on top of their bed.

 

Their shoes were still on. He pulled them off, and pushed their hair from their face, before he climbed up onto the other side of the bed. With a long sigh, he drifted off to sleep.

 

The next morning, Father came again. Changing the routine before breakfast once more.

 

“Tasallir,” he called.

 

Nenae gripped Tasallir by the shoulders, though, and kept him from moving.

 

“Ravasan…”

 

“Enough,” Father snapped.

 

Nenae flinched as if struck. Their fingers curled in the fabric of Tasallir’s shirt. Father stares at them for a long moment, before his gaze finally fell on Tasallir. He motioned. With some reluctance, Tasallir gently pulled Nenae’s fingers from him, and went over to answer the summons.

 

“Follow,” Father instructed.

 

Nenae moved after them.

 

“No, wait, Ravasan I swear I won’t-”

 

With a fluid motion, Father pulled Tasallir out through the nursery doorway. The door shut behind him with a solid __thunk.__  From the other side, he could hear the sounds of fists against it. He frowned, and pressed a hand to the wood. Hearing Nenae’s distress, but unable to open the door.

 

Father began to walk down the corridor.

 

“Follow,” he repeated.

 

Tasallir reluctantly pulled himself away, and obeyed.

 

Father made no footsteps, as he glided through the corridors. His long white hair reached almost to his ankles. His eyes were as red as Tasallir’s, but his skin was much more pale. There was a gaunt quality to his cheeks, as well, that neither Nenae nor Tasallir shared. It always made Tasallir think of skeletons.

 

He felt increasingly unsure of things as he followed his father through more and more corridors. Past rooms that rumbled and hummed, through wide chambers, until finally they came to an unfamiliar set of doors. Father pushed them open.

 

The room inside was much like Tasallir’s nursery, but different, too. There were no toys or hand-stitched blankets, no decorative paper items hanging from the ceiling. There was a large bed, and a wardrobe, and a mirror. The floor was done in geometric patterns that caught his eye. The window looked out over the mountainside he had walked through yesterday, rather than the field of sunflowers. Several large, sturdy bookcases, full of books, lined the walls.

 

“This is your room now,” Father said. “You will not go back to the nursery. You are too old to be spending every day at your nenae’s side.”

 

Tasallir froze in place, terrified.

 

Not go back to the nursery?

 

Father turned, and walked out of the room without further comment. The door banged shut behind him, and Tasallir was left standing in the middle of the room in shock. No nursery? No Nenae? He was an obedient child by inclination, but even he could not accept that. After waiting a few moments, he pulled the door open, and peeked out. When he did not see Father in the corridor, he made his way out of the room, and tried to retrace his steps back to the nursery again.

 

‘Tried’ being the operative term.

 

Every time he thought he had found the right path, however, his feet would get turned around; and he would be faced with the ‘new room’ instead. No matter how he tried, he could not find the nursery again. It was the most frightening experience of his life. Tasallir searched and searched, until he finally gave up and sat in the corridor, and began to cry instead. He cried for ages, but Nenae didn’t come.

 

When he went back into the new room, there was food on the little table inside. Tasallir ate alone. Eventually, he went through the bookshelves. Most of them had words too tiny and long for him to read, but some had pictures. He found the wardrobe had a lot of clothes in it. Without anything else to do, he decided to play dress-up for a while.

 

Then he went looking for Nenae and the nursery again.

 

This went on until nighttime. When the sky went dark, Father returned. Tasallir didn’t hear him come in, but he turned around, and saw him sitting in one of the bedroom’s chairs.

 

He went still, and waited.

 

“Tasallir,” his father said, after a while. “Come here.”

 

Tasallir went over to stand in front of him.

 

For a long, silent moment, he was inspected.

 

“Did you know, Tasallir, that you are not the first child I have had?” Father asked him.

 

Tasallir did not know this, and was somewhat dumbfounded. There were no other children in the castle. Were there?

 

He shook his head.

 

“They are all grown up,” Father told him. “Most of them are dead. The first time I became a father, my heart soared. The first time I fell in love was like flying. Like a dream. I met your Nenae when we were both young, and mortal. The first time they died… the first time my child died… I died, too. Inside, I have died a little more every time I have lost one of you. Every time your nenae is reborn, I dread the day that I lose them again.”

 

Tasallir dids not understand, except that… the other children all died?

 

He felt a shiver.

 

Father reached out, to his astonishment, and brushed his cheek. His fingers felt cold as ice.

 

“You think I do not love you,” Father whispered, quietly. His eyes looked strange. “I almost wish I could not. How many times can a heart break, before it refuses to rebuild? I am at the edge, my darling. I am at the edge and if I lose anything more, if this world takes anything more from me, I will burn it all if only to __end__  this pain. If only to never see your faces again.”

 

Tasallir did not know what to say. Father had never called him ‘darling’ before. Only Nenae did, sometimes. But then he said he did not want to see Tasallir’s face again? He shivered again in fear, and confusion.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said.

 

Father pulled his hand back, as if startled.

 

He blinked, and then looked at Tasallir again. Something strange passed across his features, before he closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he seemed to be behaving normally once more.

 

He stood up.

 

“Tomorrow a tutor will come to begin your lessons,” he declared. “Obey them. If you behave well, then at the end of the week, you can see your Nenae again.”

 

“Can Nenae tuck me in?” Tasallir asked, boldly as he dared.

 

Father glanced at him.

 

Then he gestured towards the bed. The covers folded themselves down. Without another word, then, Father turned and strode back out of the room again. The heavy ‘thud’ of the door closing made Tasallir flinch. He waited, and then tried to open it once more. But the handle wouldn’t move.

 

It was another strange, bad night, and he did not sleep well; but no matter what he did, it was not a situation he could seem to change.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Serahlin, the girl in this chapter, belongs to Scurvaliciousbay.

 

 

Tasallir’s combat instructor loathes and despises him.

 

It is Tasallir’s own fault. He does well enough at the beginning; learning his stances and holds, adjusting his bearing, following directions and copying patterns. These are easy things for him. His frame is narrow and scrawny, but the strength in his arms is fueled by his vampiric blood. Father has many tutors come for Tasallir, after taking him out of the nursery.

 

Most of them are vampires. So, most come at night.

 

But his combat instructor is a human. A gruff man, old and grey and __worn__  in ways that make Tasallir uneasy. When he asks Nenae, at the end of the week, they tell him the man is ‘aged’. That his mortal lifespan is drawing into its closing chapters, and that even if no one kills him, he will soon enough die from the vagaries of time itself.

 

To humans, unlike vampires and elves, time is like a plague.

 

Nenae warns that it makes them more impatient, but Tasallir does not discover the depths of this until he combat training progresses, and he begins to falter.

 

His instructor advances them into ‘sparring’. Trading blows. Tasallir is meant to deflect attacks, and also hit back. He is supposed to try and anticipate his opponent’s moves, read his body language, and respond accordingly. But he cannot do it. None of it seems comprehensible to him. No matter how his tutor attempts to explain, he cannot seem to perceive what he is supposed to perceive. He is not fast enough, and does not react in time.

 

He is struck. His feet are swept out from underneath him. The silver-bright practice staff that his teacher holds stings when it hits him, and leaves angry, red welts sometimes, but the ‘lesson’ of pain does not make understanding any more clear.

 

And his teacher grows annoyed.

 

“Half vampire,” he growls one morning, dragging Tasallir up from the dirt by his collar. “Half vampire and half __what?__  Rabbit?”

 

The word makes Tasallir frown.

 

Nenae has told him that this term, when used towards elves, is impolite. But his instructor is frequently impolite. He would not pass any of Tasallir’s etiquette lessons - a thought he consoles himself with, even as her nurses the sting of another failure.

 

“You are a poor teacher,” he feels bold enough to say.

 

The man rounds on him, and spits upon the ground.

 

“And you’re a spoiled brat, and the most miserable excuse for a student I’ve ever seen,” he counters. Reaching out, he grabs one of Tasallir’s arms. The rough feel of his hand makes him flinch, grating like sandpaper against his nerves. Tasallir wrenches backwards, and uses sheer strength to break the human’s grip.

 

“You see?” the man says, pointing at him with the training staff. “You have strength. But nothing else. You might look like a dancer, but when it comes to the art of the sword, the best you’ll ever be is a brute.”

 

Tasallir balks in offense. He is twelve, now; has been out of the nursery for six years, and has learned a great deal about the world since then. About culture, and refinement, and science, and philosophy. Law and poetry and mathematics.

 

“I am not a __brute,”__  he insists. “I have never even hit you. Not once.”

 

His instructor raises an eyebrow.

 

“That is not something to take pride in, boy. You’re __supposed__  to try and hit me,” the man says, shoving his practice sword back at him. Tasallir fumbles with it, a little, and earns a sigh. When he looks up, his teacher is running a wrinkled hand down his face.

 

The man looks at him grimly.

 

“How do you even hunt…?” he wonders.

 

Tasallir blinks.

 

“What?” he asks, baffled. He has no ‘hunting’ instructor. He has read about hunting, of course. It is something done for sustenance, and for sport. But Tasallir has only even left the castle once in his life. Where would he hunt?

 

“Hunt, boy. You’re half vampire, aren’t you? You drink blood, don’t you?” his teacher presses.

 

He blinks.

 

“No,” Tasallir says. “I drink milk.”

 

His instructor stares at him until he begins to feel uncomfortable under his gaze.

 

“So this is why,” the human man finally mutters, at length. He sets his staff against the courtyard wall, and lets out a long breath. The light in the chamber is bright enough to simulate daylight. The tall windows look out towards a rocky beach, where gulls crack shells open against the cold, grey stone. Tasallir waits uncertainly, as his teacher stares out towards the sea.

 

“Sooner or later, you __will__  need blood. You’ll need to hunt. He wants you ready, but you’ve got all the killer instinct of a china teacup.

 

Tasallir wavers.

 

“What do you mean?” he asks.

 

His teacher doesn’t answer, though. And after a while, he has him put back the practice sword, and leave his lessons early.

 

It’s unexpected. But Tasallir won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. He leaves, eagerly, and changes out of his training clothes. Putting on a high-collar tunic and some soft shoes, and settling into his room to read until dinner instead. Father gives him books, but so does Nenae; Tasallir usually understands Father’s books better, as they are generally about facts and science, chemistry and biology and architecture. Sometimes magic. But when he has free time, he likes to read his Nenae’s books, too, to try and understand.

 

They are fiction. Made up stories, from the world beyond the castle. Legends and myths and things that are either untrue or unproven. Tasallir had asked them why such words would hold value. He is still not certain that he understood their explanation, but he had gleaned that this was something important to them. And when Tasallir speaks to his nenae about their books, they often smile, and seem lighter. Less far away from him, in the confines of their chambers.

 

For that effect alone, he would read them.

 

He passes his extra hour muddling over his nenae’s ‘fairy tales’, which bear little resemblance to what he actually knows of the Fair Folk, until supper comes. Then his evening lessons consume him, and he mostly puts the entire matter out of his mind. Other tutors have come and gone. Perhaps he can finally stop having ‘combat lessons’, now. He does not care for them and would not miss their absence, really.

 

It seems his wish might be granted when he has no more such lessons for a few days. But then a week later, his instructor returns. Tasallir is woken abruptly by a rough hand on his shoulder, and a gruff face staring down at him.

 

“Get up,” the man says.

 

Tasallir checks the gilded clock in his room.

 

“It is too early,” he says. He has a __schedule.__

 

His instructor does not care, though. Merely barks at him like a dog, until finally Tasallir must pull himself out of bed, and dress. He puts on his practice clothes, feeling tired and cross over it. Interrupting his sleep is becoming more and more troublesome. His history teacher says it is because dhampyrs grow fast and tall and undergo many changes in their adolescence.

 

By the time he reaches the practice courtyard, though, he is mostly awake. His hair is bound, if not as neatly as he would prefer, and he is dressed. He has not had breakfast yet, but that probably will not bother him for a few hours still.

 

His footsteps waver as he arrives to find that his teacher is not waiting for him alone.

 

There is a girl in the practice courtyard.

 

She is elven. With no vampire in her, Tasallir thinks; she smells like Nenae. Warm. She’s a little younger than him, or perhaps just smaller; dressed in a pink nightgown, with muddy slippers, and ribbons in her dark hair. His instructor has her sitting on the ground, tied to one of the practice racks, and there are huge tear tracks on her cheeks.

 

“What is this?” Tasallir asks, utterly thrown by this development. And not a little fascinated, too. He has never met another child his age before.

 

His teacher gestures towards the girl.

 

“Kill her,” he says.

 

Tasallir balks.

 

“What?!” he replies, aghast. __Kill__  her? He does not even know her, why would he __kill__  her?

 

Raising his eyebrows, his instructor gestures towards the girl again.

 

“Outside of this castle, her kind are a dime a dozen. Like rabbits; long-lived but quick to breed anyway. Others use them as chattel. Your father could buy a thousand more just like her without batting an eye; indeed, I’m sure he has, over the years. And plenty others besides. Her life is essentially worthless. Take it, and I will let you conclude our lessons.”

 

Tasallir blinks, rapidly; astounded.

 

His teacher spreads his arms.

 

“I mean it,” the man says. “Kill this girl, and you will never have to deal with me again. I know you would like to be rid of these lessons. Now’s your chance, boy.”

 

The girl starts crying harder. He can smell the salt of her tears from here. Her fear, too, is a sickly scent. Bizarrely interesting, but also repellent. Tasallir gapes in utter consternation, and cannot even begin to process these instructions.

 

“I’m not going to kill her,” he says, as incredulous as he has ever felt.

 

His teacher’s expression does several odd things.

 

“No?” the man replies.

 

After a moment, he pulls a sword down from one of the display racks.

 

“Don’t know how?” he suggests. “I can demonstrate. And then we’ll get another for you to do.”

 

Tasallir takes a step forward, alarmed.

 

“No!” he insists. His heart speeds up. What is going on? Is the man insane? He must be. Father has hired him a lunatic for a tutor. It would not be the first time, but Tasallir has never seen it take so long to demonstrate itself before.

 

This is worse than when one of his former science teachers attempted to get him to vivisect a mouse.

 

“Tasallir,” his teacher says, sharply. His gaze is hard. “Think carefully. This girl is of no consequence. Now that she has been here, she __will__  die, whether on your sword or your father’s fangs. There is nothing to be gained by mercy. The only benefit is to you, if you strike.”

 

“I’m not going to murder someone!” Tasallir protests. “Do you realize what you are saying?”

 

His teacher laughs. It sounds wrong.

 

“Do __you?!”__  the man counters. He turns away from the girl, and gestures at him with his sword. “You’re half-vampire, boy! A dhampyr! A damn blood-sucker! The rabbit that birthed you is little more than a pet to the greatest predator who has ever lived, and __his__  blood runs through __your__  veins. Your father kills more easily than he breathes, boy. That’s what a vampire is. Death incarnate.”

 

Tasallir takes several hurried steps back, as his teacher rounds on him. The sword comes level with his throat.

 

“But you,” he says. “You. How can a soft rabbit heart beat in that chest of yours? Where’s the __wolf!?”__

 

His heart, whatever it might be called, beats swiftly as he is cornered. Real fear grips him, deeper than even the shock and confusion.

 

“I don’t understand what you are saying,” he tells his teacher, for what feels like the thousandth time.

 

It is the wrong thing to say. The man’s expression twists, and in a swift move, he smacks the flat of the sword against Tasallir’s face. The metal stings. The girl cries out in alarm, as if she thinks he has been stabbed; but it would take more than a basic sword to cut him, really. Especially in the hands of a human. His teacher hits him again. It __hurts,__  even if he doesn’t bleed. He raises his hands.

 

“Stop!” he protests.

 

“Where is it?!” his maddened instructor presses. “Where is the wolf? Where are your fangs? Son of Ravasan!” He hits, again and again, until Tasallir is crying and shielding himself. Pressed into the corner while the sword whips through the air, and even the cutting edge scrapes him a few times. “Son of a rabbit! What a waste, what a __waste!”__

 

“Stop it!” Tasallir cries, and finally reaches up, and grabs the sword with his hand.

 

The metal bites and scratches at the skin of his palm, but his grip is strong enough to keep his teacher from yanking it back again. The man staggers away in disgust, and draws a knife from his belt.

 

“If logic won’t work, let’s see what a little blood can do,” he says.

 

Tasallir watches in horror as he walks towards the girl.

 

He can’t really mean to…?

 

Oh __no.__

 

His blood goes cold, as his teacher moves to grab her. Tasallir shoots up to his feet, heart pounding, and for a moment all he can think to do is __stop it.__  This is all wrong, this is madness, he can’t kill a person! That’s murder! Tasallir has read books of laws and tales of history, he knows his father is a vampire and that vampires kill, but that thought seems abstract and very far away from the reality of a little elven girl and the knife in his teacher’s hand.

 

He reaches his own palm outwards, even though he is still several feet away.

 

 _ _“Stop!”__  he commands.

 

The word lashes out the way no weapon in his hands ever could. For a moment Tasallir almost thinks he can see it. Like a silvery noose that ties itself around his teacher’s limbs, and abruptly halts him. But only for a moment. When he blinks, the air is empty. And his instructor is standing stock still, immobile.

 

Except for his eyes. His eyes have turned towards Tasallir; wide in shock.

 

For several breaths, there is nothing but stunned silence all around. Then the captive girl lets out a shaky breath, fraught with tears and the fear still clinging to her.

 

“Are you… are you doing that?” she asks.

 

 _ _“Boy,”__  his teacher grits out, in a tone of voice that promises punishment.

 

Tasallir moves quickly. Leaving him where he is, not at all sure what he did or how long it will work for, as he hastily unties the girl. He’s not expecting her to throw her arms around him. It is an unpleasant surprise, she is wet from tears and rumpled and muddied, and smells like sour sweat. Tasallir carefully pries her back off, trying not to grimace as she clutches his hand instead, but he pushes past the physical discomfort as she looks at him with wide eyes.

 

She doesn’t say anything until Tasallir has hurried her out of the training courtyard, though. Then she starts crying again.

 

“I don’t understand what’s going on,” she says. “What is this place? Do you know where my family is?”

 

“This is Ravasan’s Castle,” Tasallir tells her. “Where did you come from?”

 

The girl sniffles.

 

“Montsimmard,” she says. “My mothers work for Lady Julianne. I was sleeping, in my bedroom with my sister, and I heard a noise. And then the next thing I knew there was that man, and I was __here,__  and he wouldn’t talk to me. He put a cloth in my mouth to keep me quiet, until he took me to that room…”

 

“Was anyone else with you?” Tasallir wonders. “Did he take your sister too?”

 

“I don’t know,” the girl says. “I was alone when I woke up.”

 

They run, Tasallir unconsciously leading them towards his room, before he hesitates. That is probably where his teacher will go to look for him. It is where most do, because it is where he is easily found. But if what that man said was true, then Father might want to kill the little girl, too. Tasallir would not be shocked by such a thing, little though he cares to think of it.

 

He does not know what to do. The castle is no place for the girl. The feel of her hand in his is making him agitated, too, feeling cramped and trapped and itching at the back of his teeth. As he hesitates, though, the girl finally lets him go. She pauses to catch her breath.

 

Elves are weak, Tasallir remembers. They cannot run as fast or hit as hard or do as many things. His Nenae cannot, and so, probably, neither can the girl.

 

He hopes he will not have to pick her up and carry her.

 

But he thinks he knows how to, at least. He has seen his father do it, of course. Hands beneath the knees and shoulders, walk steady, go silent. The thought reminds him of his Nenae, and Tasallir makes a decision.

 

“This way,” he says, once the girls’ breathing is not so bad. He leads her quickly down a different corridor; veering away from his rooms and instead following the path the leads to his nenae’s. When he was younger, the path would never bring him to their door unless it was the end of the week. But then for years, he did not even __attempt__  to approach his nenae’s chambers unscheduled. When he was ten, he finally tried again, and discovered that the safeguards that had once deterred him were no longer in place. Father no longer expected disobedience; so he had simply let them fall away without renewal.

 

Tasallir had not known what to do with the information. He had stood outside of his nenae’s door for an hour, fearful that pressing forward might still make him unwelcome, somehow. That it would lead to the whole thing being discovered, and revoked. And so for the past few years, he has only used the knowledge sometimes; when he is frightened or lonely, when he wishes for the safety of the nursery again, he will go and sit outside his nenae’s door.

 

It never opens, so that is not a fear. His nenae is still confined in their rooms.

 

But this time, he can only hesitate for a moment before he knocks on the door.

 

“Tasallir…?” his nenae calls. “What…?”

 

He opens the door at their answer, relieved that it is swift - it would be too impolite to open it otherwise - and hurries himself and the girl inside.

 

Nenae stares at them in shock. They look as though they have just stood up from their writing desk. Their hair is loose, and they are wearing a soft day robe, with orange flowers on it. There are dark circles under their eyes, and no powder on their face. Tasallir closes the door shut firmly behind them, and turns the lock.

 

“What on earth is going on?” Nenae asks.

 

“I am sorry for the intrusion,” he says, and bows politely to them. “I believe my combat instructor has gone insane. He kidnapped this girl and told me to kill her. I stopped him, somehow, and we ran away. I didn’t know where else to take her, Nenae. She’s an elf, like you.”

 

The girl glances at him uncomfortably for a moment. She stares at his eyes, before she ducks her head, and seems to come back to her senses a little.

 

“Je vous demande pardon, ser,” she says to Nenae, with appreciable manners. “I hate to intrude.”

 

Nenae stares at them for a moment. Then they shake their head a little, and breathe in sharply. Lifting a hand, they push back a few strands of their hair, and swipe self-consciously at their cheeks.

 

“No. No, of course, you did the right thing coming here,” they say, reaching over and resting a hand on the girl’s head. “Poor child. Tasallir, take her into the solar, straight away. Just give me one moment and then I will come and you can tell me everything, properly.”

 

With a nod, Tasallir gestures the girl towards the correct doorway. She goes, only scent of her fear still giving evidence to the fact that she is not really calm yet. The solar is a nice room, though. It overlooks the same rocky beach as the training courtyard, but with a more picturesque view, and there are plants and soft chairs and a neatly organized game board that can be reconfigured to play a number of games. The girl sits down and Tasallir reaches into one of the drawers beneath the main soft, and pulls out a pair of slippers. Normally he wears them while he plays games - the room can get too hot for proper shoes - but it seems more imperative to offer them to the girl.

 

Her slippers are muddy, and mud __itches.__

 

She takes the offering, and does not seem to know what to do with it for a moment. Until her mind catches up to her, and she pulls off her grimy slippers. Tasallir gives her a waste basket to drop them in, while she slides on the new ones.

 

“I don’t even know how I got so muddy,” she murmurs.

 

“The training courtyard has dirt floors,” he says. “I never understood why. It just makes things messy. In hindsight, I probably should have noticed my teacher was insane earlier.”

 

“Oh.”

 

They sit in awkward silence. The girl stares at her hands, and sniffles, and then reaches up and tries to straighten the ribbons in her hair. Tasallir doesn’t know what to say. He’s relieved when Nenae returns; this time dressed in proper day clothes, with their hair tied back, and powder on their face. Usually, when Tasallir visits, they have a tray of sweets. Today they only have tea, which they settle down onto the serving table, before moving to brush a hand over Tasallir’s head.

 

“Are you alright?” they ask him softly.

 

He looks up at them, and nods. One of their fingers brushes across his cheek.

 

“He hit you?” they ask, in the same low, careful tone of voice.

 

Oh. Tasallir had nearly forgotten that, in the rush of everything. He doesn’t like to think of it right now, either, he finds. After a moment, he shrugs awkwardly. Nenae’s expression shifts. They pass him a cup of tea and a cool cloth, and quietly tell him to just rest, before they turn their attention towards the girl. As Tasallir breathes out in relief and sips his tea, Nenae settles onto the seat next to their unexpected guest. They ask her several low, soft questions, too. Most of which the girl either nods to or shakes her head at. A few merit answers out loud.

 

“What is your name, sweetheart?” they ask.

 

“Serahlin,” the girl says.

 

“What a lovely name,” Nenae commends. They give her some tea, too, and then gently fix her hair ribbons for her. “I almost named Tasallir ‘Seravir’, which is very close to that. Your mothers must have impeccable taste.”

 

“They do,” Serahlin says, a little more steadily. “Memae and Mamae are the most respectable elves in Lady Julianne’s employ. They are always faultless.”

 

“I suspected as much,” Nenae tells her. “It would take such people to raise a child so brave and well-mannered, especially under the circumstances. I’m certain that they will be proud to hear you handled a terrible situation so well.”

 

“They’ll be worried,” Serahlin says.

 

Nenae rubs her shoulder.

 

“They’ll be beside themselves, that’s true. But we’ll get you back. I will even see to it that you are all given a gift, for the trouble.”

 

Tasallir finds himself reassured. Serahlin also seems to be, as she tries to keep up the polite conversation for a while; before her distress wins out, again. Then he watches as she crumples into tears. Nenae shushes her gently, and pulls her into their lap. They rock her, as they used to do for Tasallir when he was much smaller. Humming and soothing until Serahlin’s elven body seems to just… give out, in exhaustion.

 

He watches in consternation as the little girl falls unconscious.

 

“Is she alright?” he checks. He can hear her breathing, and her heart beating.

 

“Yes, just utterly drained. Poor thing,” Nenae clucks. They lay Serahlin out so that she can lie down on the seat, and then move back over to sit next to Tasallir instead.

 

“Darling, what did you do, precisely, to stop your teacher?” they ask him.

 

Tasallir considers.

 

“I said ‘stop’,” he recounts. “And I held out my hand. And then… __something__  happened. I think I saw ropes? But not real ones. Maybe they were just in my mind. They seemed to grab him, and after that, it was like he couldn’t move anything except for his eyes.”

 

Nenae takes in a long breath and lets it out again. They brush some more of his hair back. In their lap, one of their hands is clenched into a fist. It trembles, slightly.

 

“May I hug you, Tasallir?” they ask.

 

Ordinarily, after having Serahlin grab him so much, he thinks he would say no. But watching her be cradled and cuddled by his nenae had left him feeling strangely. Almost envious, he thinks. So after a moment, he nods in agreement. And then he closes his eyes, as his nenae sweeps their arms around him and crushes him to their chest. The sensation is nearly overwhelming, but he savours it anyway. Surrounded by their scent, and the feel of them holding him. They bury a nose in his hair and breathe in deeply, before pressing several kisses to his crown.

 

“My baby,” they say. “How dare. How dare you, Ravasan…”

 

 

“Nenae?” Tasallir asks, tentatively.

 

They lean back after a moment, and frame his face with their hands. Their fingers brush over the reddened marks on him, soothingly; though the marks do not hurt anymore, and have not for a while. They stopped stinging while he and Serahlin were still running.

 

“Don’t worry,” they say. They have an odd expression on their face. “Nenae will fix it. Your friend will be alright, and you won’t ever see that ‘teacher’ again.”

 

Tasallir thinks he should feel reassured. But for some reason, he finds himself wary instead.

 

“How?” he wonders.

 

“ _ _How?”__  Nenae asks, though they do not actually seem offended. They press a finger to his nose, before they finally sit back and give him his space again. “How indeed. There is no authority greater than your father’s, and there are some things he wants from me that he cannot take by force. Not without ruining them forever after. So, this time, your father will do as I tell him to. Because it will cost him nothing and gain something.”

 

Tasallir sips some more of his tea.

 

“What will you give him?” he wonders.

 

Nenae shakes their head.

 

“Nothing you have to worry about,” they say.

 

“But I will worry about it,” Tasallir refutes. He is almost surprised at himself. Nenae frowns a little, and he stares down at his teacup. “Forgive me…”

 

“No, no. I know you worry, darling,” they say, patting the table next to his hand. “It’s nothing. Just a little blood. It won’t even hurt me.”

 

He stares at his nenae; at the pallor that has consistently overtaken their complexion. The dark circles covered by powder. The faint hollowness to their features, that seems to have grown more and more noticeable. Bit by bit, over the past few years. He knows it is rude, but he stares, too, at their neck. He never sees the bite mark, though. They always cover it up. He only knows it is there because once - just once, before he left the nursery - he saw his father come, and bite Nenae there.

 

He smelled the blood, and cried.

 

“I’m sorry,” he offers. “I made trouble for you…”

 

“Nonsense,” Nenae says.

 

Tasallir swallows, and thinks of what his teacher had been telling him, when he was trying to get him to kill Serahlin. About things costing nothing, and gaining something. But that is not how balance works. That is not the order of things. Even if one does not pay a cost themselves, energy must always be transferred.

 

Does his father think in such terms?

 

But surely Father has read all the same books that Tasallir has? Ethics and philosophy as well as science and physics and everything else. His history teacher once told him that there was not a single book in the world that Father had not read.

 

So maybe it is Tasallir who truly does not understand the nature of this bartering, in lives and blood.

 

“Nenae…” he asks, tentatively.

 

They look towards him patiently.

 

“Am I going to have to drink blood, one day?” he wonders.

 

His nenae pauses. Their gaze turns down. Slowly, and with deliberate care, they unclench the hand in their lap. Then they smooth it over their lap, and onto the upholstery beside him.

 

“If a vampire does not drink blood, then they will die. The same way that if I do not drink water, I will day,” they say. “You, Tasallir, will be able to survive on either. But. Blood will give you power, and it is power that is addicting. Once you begin to drink blood, Tasallir, you will want to keep doing it. The more you do it, the harder it will be to stop. So… I would rather you did not do such a thing, unless needs must.”

 

Tasallir nods in understanding. He feels a rush of relief.

 

“I will not have to?” he checks, just in case.

 

Nenae smiles at him. The last of the tension seems to ease from their posture.

 

“You will not have to,” they promise.

 

Tasallir stays another hour, then. They finish having tea. Serahlin does not wake up, but Nenae tell him to leave her with them. When his usual breakfast time comes, he leaves. He stays away from the training courtyards, but his instructor is nowhere to be see. Tasallir manages to pass the rest of the day in relative peace; he goes to to his evening lessons, when his vampiric tutors awaken. He tries to focus on his studies, though it is harder than usual to curtail his thoughts.

 

When he is finally free to have his own time again, he heads back to his nenae’s rooms.

 

The way is warded, once more.

 

Tasallir feels mixed feelings, and even apprehension when his steps - rather than rerouting him back towards his own room - instead bring him to the stark double-doors of his father’s study. He hesitates before them, trying to swallow down his trepidation, but knowing he must be expected.

 

It is rude to keep people waiting.

 

With his heart hammering, he reaches up, and pulls the door to the left open. It is heavy and solid in his grasp. Father’s study is massive, filled with the sounds of clicking machines and whirling devices. Bookshelves tower between wrought iron windows. A map of the world is etched into the floor, and a faint, acrid scent clings to the air. His father’s large, wingback chair is situated next to the largest window in the room.

 

Tasallir can see his arm, as he sits in it.

 

The door to the study shuts behind him. His father stands up.

 

“Tasallir,” he beckons.

 

Dutifully, he moves forward. The summons to follow is obvious, as his father heads through one of the side doors of the study, Head down, Tasallir trails after him. They head through one of the workshops, and then down an unfamiliar flight of stairs. Though the castle still has so many, even despite Tasallir spending all of his life in it. He watches the light recede behind them, while his father glides effortlessly downwards, until they are in a cell.

 

His combat instructor is bound in the middle of it.

 

Tasallir startles again. The man is covered in welts. His eyepatch is gone, and his clothes have been torn in some places, but what seems to be the weight of several heavy blows. Blood trickles sluggishly down into his collar. It looks as though someone has beaten him many times over with some kind of belt or whip.

 

It is an unpleasant sight, and Tasallir does not want to see it.

 

“What is going on?” he asks.

 

His father comes to a halt in the nearest corner of the room.

 

“Your nenae informed me your instructor was unsuitable,” Father tells him. “They have reprimanded him. I now leave it to you to decide what to do with him.”

 

Tasallir shifts uncomfortably in place.

 

“What do you mean?” he asks.

 

His father’s gaze does not seem to rest on either himself or his combat instructor.

 

“I mean what I say. What would you have done with him?”

 

“I…” Tasallir’s gaze skitters away from the wounded man before him. The scent of blood makes him feel nauseous. “I don’t know.”

 

A long silence descends. Father seems ambivalent. When he ventures a look back towards his instructor, the man only returns his stare with disgust. Disgust and disappointment, so apparent that even Tasallir cannot mistake them.

 

“Where’s Serahlin?” he asks his father.

 

“What?”

 

“The elven child.”

 

“Oh. The girl has been taken back to her home,” his father says. “Memories erased. Compensation provided.”

 

“Truly?” Tasallir finds himself asking.

 

Father looks at him, at that. As if surprised by the question.

 

“When have you known me to lie?” he asks.

 

“Never,” Tasallir supposes. “But I am learning new things every day.”

 

He would never openly rebel against his father. His will is absolute; he is the oldest vampire in existence, and quite possibly the most powerful being in the world. Next to that, Tasallir and Nenae are only dust. But for some reason, today, he finds himself thinking of his mother’s gods. Of the way defiance tastes at the back of his tongue, like the crack of power flying forth at a single command. The chaos of these situations grates against him, like a hand pressed to tightly to his skin.

 

He wants to put it right.

 

Father looks away from him after a moment.

 

“Decide,” he commands.

 

Tasallir closes his eyes, before turning on his heel to walk back out of the room.

 

“Send him away, then,” he decides. “No more combat classes.”

 

His father does not object. So Tasallir walks out of the dungeon, and back through the work room. He is at the door to the study, before he hears his father’s voice again.

 

“Tasallir.”

 

He stops.

 

“You must learn to fight.”

 

A sigh escapes him.

 

“A new instructor will be sent for. Do not trouble your nenae with this information.”

 

When that seems to be all, Tasallir finally opens the door to the story, and hurries back out again. Waiting until he is in the hallway to slump against one of the walls, and retch over the stress and the lingering image of his instructor’s battered form.

 

 

~

 

 

 

Tasallir is eighteen when his nenae dies.

 

If he were a more sentimental person, he thinks he might claim that he knew the moment it happened. But the truth is, he does not. He only knows the matter __after__  - knows when the castle shakes, knows when Ravasan’s fury and pain begin to resound through the firmament of his construct, and his cry of anguish resonates in such unfamiliar tones that Tasallir would not even recognize his voice, save for the fact that no other being could impact the castle so entirely.

 

His blood, rarely warm, turns to ice in his veins.

 

He can think of only one thing that even __could__  merit such a cry.

 

His nenae has been gone for nearly a year, by then.

 

They left. A moment of opportunity, Tasallir thinks. Ravasan had, for the first time in memory, neglected the eluvian room. The sounds of a mirror activating were not unfamiliar, resonating through the other reflective surfaces of the castle, but the panic that ensued was. The castle had cycled through a hundred different locations, since then. Scouts were sent out. Tasallir was locked in his quarters; sealed away, at first, and then dragged out by contrast. Dangled like bait, as he was escorted from the castle for the first time since… the __first time,__  in fact.

 

__We must find your nenae. It is not safe for them. They are in danger, Tasallir. We must bring them back…_ _

 

He had not known if he believed his father’s words, then. Wavering in uncertainty, lost in the knowledge that Nenae had left of their own will. Just as they had tried to do before. They had left…

 

…They had left without him, in the end.

 

In Kirkwall, Tasallir found something. Standing in a dingy tavern, trying not to touch the wealth of filthy surfaces; even with his gloves on, he felt over-exposed and surrounded by chaotic mess. The scouts were out searching the less visible parts of the city. Tasallir’s job was to be, by contrast, __very__  visible. The bright lure to draw his nenae out. As he stood in the tavern, wishing to be elsewhere, some patrons had passed close. Making inappropriate comments, asking pithy questions. Reeking of ale and spit and even more unpleasant things.

 

Someone passed into him from behind.

 

Tasallir froze.

 

For the briefest moment, he caught a familiar scent. In the corner of his eye, there was a flash of bright red hair. The feel of fingers brushing, just briefly, against his arm.

 

Then it was gone. And by the time Tasallir had decided whether or not to turn around, whether or not to really __look__  for someone who did not wish to be found, there was no sign of anything. The moment brief enough that it could have been a dream.

 

He found the note in his pocket hours later. When he was alone in his room, and finally dared to look.

 

__My dearest Tasallir,_ _

__

__I am so sorry. You will never know how sorry I truly am, my son, that I could not take you with me. That I left you behind. I can offer you no excuses. I had but one chance to go, and no time to find you. In a moment, I took it. In the next, I nearly ran back. But as you read this, you must know, of course, that I did not. I did not go back for you._ _

__

__And I cannot. That castle is a tomb, and I cannot let myself be sealed away. I cannot endure it any longer. The more freedom I taste the more I know that I would rather die out here than live another minute in that gilded cage._ _

__

__I do not know if you will understand that. You have never known freedom, so you do not understand the cost of its absence. It is my greatest regret that I could not bring you with me. That I cannot show you the world as I see it. But I know he has you searching for me. Dearest one, I do not know what my words will mean to you. If you are angry at me. If you are confused. If you are lonely and afraid. They may mean nothing now, after this abandonment, but I hope you will still heed me. If only a little._ _

__

__You must not stay in that castle. You must not remain with that dead man. The world can be a frightening and dangerous place, Tasallir, full of sorrow and treachery. But it is also full of so many wonders. Ravasan knows many things, but he understands less than enough to fill a thimble. There are wonders out here that you will never recognize until you are free. Win your freedom, my son. When you see the door open, seize your chance, and barrel through._ _

__

__If you can forgive me, come and find me again. My life is a string of regrets, but you are not one of them._ _

__

__All my love,_ _

__

__Nenae._ _

 

Tasallir had read and re-read the note. Until finally he had folded it neatly away, and hit it in a pocket on the inside of his boot.

 

He was not angry. He could not even fathom being angry, and he had no reason to feel frightened. Loneliness… Tasallir could not say either way, he supposed. There was a gnawing ache in him, and like a missed step in the dark, the end of the week felt strained and strange without his nenae’s voice to steady him. But there was so much upheaval, how could he know if he felt loneliness, when his father’s minions dragged him through every major thoroughfare in Thedas, leaving him struggling through crowds and trying to navigate evening bridges, stranded in market squares with screaming children and aggressive vendors?

 

Did he want Nenae to be found?

 

…That didn’t matter. What mattered was that Nenae did __not__  want to be found. So, Tasallir kept the letter in his boot.

 

As the castle quaked, and his heart sank, he felt as though he had made the gravest mistake of his life.

 

Father called a war council.

 

The engines of the castle churned. Tasallir was summoned, but then, so, it seemed, was every other creature of the night. The castle was situated high atop a foggy hillside. The doors were flung wide open for seven nights, as vampires from across Thedas poured in; solitary figures, and covens, ancient beings and freshly-turned degenerates. To say that Tasallir had any advantage over the rest would have been folly. His father put out the summons, and screamed wrath into the various portals and machines of the castle; and when the fury would die down in him, he would retreat to his study, and seal the doors.

 

Not once did he call for Tasallir in particular. Not even to recriminate him. It was days before Tasallir even learned what had happened.

 

In Kirkwall.

 

The Knight Commander burned his nenae at the stake. __Maleficarum,__  they were branded. A wicked elven mage.

 

Tasallir maintained his composure at the news until he was alone. Then he broke down. Falling to his knees, as he shook, and shook, and wondered where that anguished sound was coming from. Until he realized his throat was aching from the strength of his own cries.

 

Like father like son, perhaps. But Tasallir’s fit lingered only in the unsteadiness of his limbs, and the way his mind could not focus on a single thought of fire, or the red of Nenae’s hair.

 

Ravasan’s was far more enduring.

 

On the seventh night, the doors slam shut. The war council is assembled. Tasallir takes not of the crowd. Not only vampires, in the end, but some others, too. Mages. Artisans of the dead from Nevarra; forgers of night-terror golems from Orzammar. Magister lich lords, abominations, and more. Ravasan’s war council is the most crowded that Tasallir has ever seen the castle be. It suddenly strikes him that the spaces around him were, perhaps, even __meant__  for crowds these size at some point. The cavernous chambers feel, for the first time in his recollection, necessary to comfortably accommodate the crowds in the castle.

 

The chatter of the masses goes silent, as Ravasan glides out into the meeting chamber.

 

“Children of the Night,” he greets. “The time has come. A thousand years ago, I stood before a council of you. Some of you the same faces, even then. And I disbanded the armies of dusk, in the name of a prosperous future.”

 

Ravasan seemed massive, to Tasallir. At that moment he all but towered. His cloak a black shadow; his body a wall. His skin bleached as bone. There was nothing in his eyes. Just a void, like the hollow pits of a skull.

 

__You must not remain with that dead man._ _

__

“I stand before you now to decry that Ravasan as a fool. I call upon you, now, to join me in forsaking the world ruled by mortal souls. My beloved is dead. Burned by those who would count themselves as virtuous. I care not if they have any virtue to speak of. I care not if any living being does. I call for their deaths! For all of their deaths! I call for the chantry’s decimation, for the slaughter of their peoples, for the streets to run red with blood. I call for war!”

 

The hall bursts into uproar. Tasallir is stunned; he had never even thought such a thing might be possible. War? Armies? He stares blankly ahead, as the uproar among the gathered crowds surges. Some cheer and roar in delight, crying out in triumph, as if something they have long awaited has finally come to pass. Others call out questions, raise their arms, trying to mitigate the furor of the crowds as they seek answers or clarifications or try and gain Ravasan’s attention.

 

It is futile, of course. Father did not come to debate. He came to announce. Tasallir watches him leave, letting the crowd fight among itself. Some onlookers try and follow, but the castle will not let them.

 

With what advantages her does have, Tasallir turns, and makes his way down a side passage. Detouring several times, before he finally manages to get onto a pathway that leads to the double doors of his father’s study.

 

They are locked.

 

Tasallir musters himself, and slams the knocker down.

 

“It is me,” he announces.

 

There is a long wait.

 

But just when he has begun to abandon it in futility, the study door opens a crack.

 

He pushes it the rest of the way. Once he’s inside, it swings shut behind him, of course. The study is quiet. The usual click and clack of machines has been silenced. The lights are dim. Moonlight streams in through the large study window, and shines against the skin of Ravasan’s hand, from where Tasallir can see it.

 

He approaches the chair.

 

“What are you doing?” he asks.

 

His father does not deign to answer. His eyes remain fixed out of the window in front of him.

 

“A war?” he presses. “You mean to sic the forces of darkness on Kirkwall?”

 

Father’s gaze remains fixed. But one of his fingers taps the armrest of his chair.

 

“Kirkwall?” he says. “No. My son. I mean to raze all of Thedas.”

 

Tasallir hesitates.

 

“What… who’s ‘all of Thedas’, in this scenario?” he asks. “The chantry?”

 

“All of them,” his father insists. “The Free Marches. Orlais. Ferelden. Tevinter. Nevarra. Antiva. Every country, every nation, every filthy shore from here to Seheron. Every human, every elf, dwarf, vashoth, __all of them.__  I will not suffer them any longer. This nightmare, this unceasing __nightmare__  of rebirth and decay. Every inch of it must be destroyed…”

 

Tasallir stares at his father, and feels a familiar incomprehension dawn.

 

Suddenly, it is almost as if he is twelve years old again. Staring at his combat instructor, as the man commands him to kill an innocent little girl. The cold in his veins feels heavy. A stone in the pit of his stomach; the bottom of his heart.

 

__Madness._ _

 

“Father… that is pure insanity,” he says.

 

There is silence.

 

And then, before he can blink, there is a fist around his throat. Tasallir’s eyes widen. He barely has time to lift a hand, to think of defense, before he is pitched across the room. His back slams into one of the study bookshelves. Hard enough to knock the breath clean out of him, as his father rounds on him like a nightmare. Looming and stone-faced, except that the hollow pits of his eyes seem lit with a hungry, all-consuming fire instead.

 

“Insanity?” he demands. “Insanity, __my son,__  is that your nenae died __in Kirkwall!__  Where I sent you at least half a dozen times! Did you think this was a game?! That a dozen scouts scouring every city in the realm, an engine churning every night for __months on end,__  was idle farce?! I sent you to find them, and you left them to their death instead!”

 

Tasallir hurries back to his feet. Keenly aware of the creature before him, the ancient and unnatural being bearing down upon him. He raises his hands, and flinches as his father reaches out and flings a nearby chair into the wall. The crash of the wood splintering into pieces echoes on impact.

 

“Father!” he beseeches. “Stop!”

 

Another piece of furniture flies. This one collides with Tasallir, and knocks him into yet another bookcase. As Ravasan bears down on him again, he is struck by the sudden certainty that if he does not do something quickly, he is going to die.

 

He draws his sword.

 

The silvery blade gleams, moving from its sheath with the power of a thought. Physical fighting was never Tasallir’s strong suit; but telekinesis, as it happens, is something of a rare talent. He hurries out of his father’s path, and sends his sword arcing forward in a defensive move to deflect another thrown chair.

 

Ravasan reaches out, in a sudden flash, and grasps the handle of his blade. He wrenches from the hold of Tasallir’s mind, so fierce that there is no resisting it. The pull jars him, badly. He staggers, and then falls backwards as his father strikes out at him with his own sword.

 

The blow is shocking. The blade slices through his jacket and vest, and cleaves neatly into his flesh. Burning silver-bright as it cuts a swath across his torso. His own blood spatters, dark red, against the front of his father’s cloak, and the wall beside him. Tasallir’s eyes are wide. The pain is excruciating. He falls, clutching at himself; caught by a sudden, desperate fear that his heart is about to fall clear through the wound in his chest.

 

Father halts.

 

The fire in his hollow gaze seems to flicker out for a moment, as he stares uncomprehendingly at Tasallir.

 

His sword clatters to the floor.

 

“Father…” he breathes.

 

The man stares at him.

 

His head shakes, just slightly. Then he backs away. Hastily at first, it seems; but then maybe that was just the jittery state of Tasallir’s own mind. Because a moment later, he is gliding away. Back over to his chair, as if nothing of note has just happened. Tasallir’s blood spreads across the floor.

 

“Leave,” his father instructs.

 

With a great force of effort, Tasallir picks himself up off the floor of the study. He nearly slips in his own blood. His arm clutches his chest, as the wound burns. He does not know what to do for it; he has never been so badly hurt before. With numb fingers, he physically lifts his sword. More out of some obscure habit towards tidiness than anything else. His thoughts are scattered; delirious.

 

__You must not remain with that dead man._ _

__

__Leave._ _

 

He takes the command further, perhaps, than he father intended; as he staggers from the study, and then hurries to his room. Stopping only long enough to wrap his torso in bandages, and try to stem the bleeding, before he pulls on a fresh set of clothing. The kind he normally would wear on one of his searches for Nenae. He leaves his hair loose, as he belts his sword on again, and then makes his way back into the churning corridors of the castle. Heading down and down, until he finds the main hall again. The double doors are closed; but the side entrances are open, as servants hurry to and fro, trying to accommodate the maelstrom of guests.

 

Tasallir is not recognized, nor regarded.

 

He slips out of the castle, and vanishes into the night.

 

 


End file.
